books dampen, their once-crisp edges wilt and stick, turn sallow gracelessly.
blurring, late winter's latest rain-fallen, words become strange pilgrims wandering into eccentric neighborhoods or set adrift on the nile.
it is that kind of danger, when no one writes the colonel and where a sphinx in the city might meet a deluxe transitive vampire under a flowering tree and if you lived here, you might understand where I'm coming from, at this bridge called my back.
sentences disintegrate, paragraphs lose their inky fat. language dissolves into an amorphous dark literary cloud that spreads indiscriminately, with a trickster's glee, violating empty space, the space between paragraphs and chapters, the space between sentences, ideas, dreams - those spaces like silences or mysteries inviolable.